


open hand or closed fist would be fine

by Marianne_Dashwood



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Aftercare, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Fluff, Gen, God i hope i tagged everything right, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Light BDSM, Monster Best Friends!, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Abuse, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Nudity, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Sex, Praise Kink, The Buried - Freeform, is that a thing?, its hot af but it SUCKS, lots and lots and lots of aftercare, the hunt sucks, they even have a sleepover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21923635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood
Summary: Daisy and Jon have a complicated relationship. It got even more complicated after the escape from the Buried.akaDaisy tries to make things right. Jon doesn't really know how to accept kindness.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan Sims/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 271





	open hand or closed fist would be fine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the art of scraping by](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168668) by [fairbanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbanks/pseuds/fairbanks). 



> okay so, first, I have to give props to the work that inspired this one, because it's amazing and gripped me so tight I couldn't let it go until I wrote some of my own jondaisy. I just??? love their relationship so much??
> 
> second, this is the closest I have ever come to writing smut and, there isn't even any actual smut contained within.
> 
> also, I feel like i should add another disclaimer on top of the tags listed so, tw for bad bdsm practices, no use of a safeword, no previous aftercare where there should have been some, and someone trying to make up for all of those things to the person they hurt. If that bothers you, I won't be offended if you need to step out of this fic!

It’s three weeks out of the coffin and Jon is still, after all of it, finding it hard to breathe. His breath catches on nothing, snags on statements as the imaginary press of dirt hits his lungs. It’s no worse than the phantom ropes sliding on slick skin that he had suffered after his stint with the Circus. It is certainly no worse than other, less decent things that he now has to contend sliding into his memory at inopportune times. 

It’s because Daisy is back. That’s not a bad thing; he sees the relief and hope in Basira's eyes where before there was only grief and grim determination, and thinks, _at least someone is happy._

Daisy is back, and it isn’t the Daisy he knew. 

Daisy the hunter was determined, and bloodthirsty, and did not care what she did in order to rid the world of just another monster. She was _cruel_ , and angry and utterly loyal to one person over all others, and the Hunt loved her for it. Daisy the hunter would have killed him eventually. 

Daisy the unburied is… different. Not just because she was still remembering how her muscles worked, or because she is no longer as connected to the Hunt as she once was; she speaks softly. She is gentle in her words, this wolf-woman with a face full of scars, this woman who once ripped a Stranger to pieces because she didn’t know better. She plays the Archers at full volume when it’s on, and old jazz music when it isn’t. This Daisy held his hand in the Buried and told him that she was sorry in a broken and dirt-crushed voice. This Daisy told him she was scared, something the Hunter never would have done. 

She hasn’t talked to Jon. Not much, not beyond sitting in the same room as he takes a statement, files it away into the void of the Beholding. That, in itself, hasn’t changed; they never did used to talk much. But now she watches him with something that isn’t hunger, something that Jon is still struggling to identify. 

He doesn’t think she wants to kill him anymore. He doesn’t know if he would mind if she did. 

* * *

“Hit me.” He had said, lifetimes ago, outside what was technically his flat, but was really just an oversized wardrobe, considering all that he used it for was clothes storage. 

Daisy regarded him for a long moment, arms crossed. He could see the Hunt in her veins, in the thin line of her mouth, in her eyes as they searched his for any sign of weakness. 

It’s not begging. It’s not; he hasn’t had anyone, anyone that was at least entirely biologically human, touch him at all (the Strangers, with their stretched over skin and stolen voice boxes and faces of a face he maybe knew once, don’t count). Basira clapped his shoulder, once, hard and unyielding and never again, Tim was entirely closed off and angry, even Martin pulled back from any contact, like he was afraid he would hurt Jon. What a joke. Nothing could apparently hurt him now, except for lack of information. 

No one was touching him, and maybe he deserved it because he was a monster, and he deserved to be hurt, so, maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. Feed two monsters with one punch.

“Hit me.” He said again, because maybe she hadn’t understood. It had to be Daisy. Tim was a coiled snake, anger and grief ready to lash out at anyone and anything, but he was still a good man. Martin would never. Basira didn’t hate enough. 

Daisy was the Hunt. He was a monster. It was her job, to hurt _things_ like him. Like she had hurt Mike Crew, like she had _killed_ Mike Crew.

“Why?” She replied, growl trapped in the back of her throat, every atom of her looking at him and screaming _prey._

“You hate me, don’t you?” He said, watching as her breath quickens with the Hunt in her lungs, looming over him even though he is not much smaller than she. She is poised, muscle and strength and hatred, and oh yeah, fucking ex-police who had a thing for murder and Jon feels fear sink into his bones. Good. He deserves to be afraid. “You hate me, because Elias trapped Basira because of me, he has to protect me like you’re a dog on a leash -” Daisy snarled, then, and Jon flinched, “And because I’m a monster and you kill monsters and _I deserve it_.”

“Elias will _hurt_ her if I do anything to you.”

“Not if I asked. Not because of this. Just,” Bad decisions leap to his hands, and he pushed her backwards, as hard as he could. It’s not much, but it made her stagger, and her head snapped up in anger and hunger, and in between blinks, Jon saw sharp teeth snarl, and the desperation for his own ruin rises, “ _Hit me_ , Alice!”

Next thing he knew, his head was pounding and there is blood in his mouth where he bit his tongue because Daisy just slapped him, punched him, did something to snap his head back against the brickwork, make his jaw ache and his head spin. 

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Daisy said, and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him up to her eye level, not caring about the blood that drips from his split lip onto her palm.

Jon made eye contact, as much as he could as the world still spun around him, and puts on his smugest bastard voice. 

“Make me. _Alice._ ”

He deserves it when she hit him again, black eye surely to bloom on his face come the morning. He deserves it when she threw him to the ground. He deserves it when she growled at him to get up, to fight back, to do _something_. 

He let her manhandle him upstairs to his flat, let the fear overtake him because fear is good, and he isn’t, because Daisy wants to kill him and she can’t, because he wanted to be punished for what he is and she’s the only one who can. Jon stared into her eyes, and didn’t look away even as she pushed him up against the door to his bedroom with her arm, choking off his breath. 

“Can you handle this?” She had asked then. It had been the only time she had ever asked him. When he didn’t reply, she shook him again, loosened her grip enough for him to reply, “If we are going to do this, I need to know if you can handle this.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst.” He replied, voice raspy. 

Her eyes gleam in the dark of his flat, predator before the chase. “Is that a challenge?”

Jon, despite all accounts, is not stupid. He knows what she is asking, between the words she is actually saying, but doesn’t yet understand if he _Knows_ or just knows, but he knows that Daisy doesn’t just mean hurting him. Means other things; means things that he wouldn’t dare think of otherwise. Sex has always been something akin to torture with Jon. Something entirely off the table for every relationship he has ever been in. This isn’t a relationship; that changes things. 

Now, it’s just something else he can hurt himself with. And if it will satisfy the Hunter in front of him at the same time, maybe it won’t be so bad. It isn’t intimacy, it doesn’t need conversation or awkward explanations about how he isn’t like everyone else. It’s just sex. It’s just _hurt_. It doesn’t mean anything. 

Jon understood all of this, and met Daisy’s gaze again. 

“ _Yes_.” He breathed, and well. That’s that. 

* * *

Jon is washing his hands when Daisy finally corners him. He keeps washing them - _out damn’d spot_ \- but he can feel dirt in every line and crease of his skin, scratching under his clothes, in his mouth and eyes and ears and well. If the only comfort he can get is rubbing his hands red raw with the overwhelming smell of almonds and honey from the washing up liquid, well, that’s what he is going to take. 

Daisy doesn’t move like a predator, not anymore, but he still jumps when she speaks, having snuck into the room while he was distracted. 

“Hey,” She says, in a voice that lilts and slopes like a mountain, “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” Jon says, drying his hands on the rough towel, only wincing a little. “I’m just fine, Daisy. How, er, how are you?”

“Would you rather I lied to you, like you just did, or told you the truth?”

“I’m fine, Daisy.” Jon says, throwing the towel into the sink with a lot more force than necessary. “I don’t need to be checked up on. I’m fine.”

“Is that why your hand is bleeding?” Daisy asks. Jon looks down, swore under his breath, and rubs at the places on the back of his hand where the skin has literally been rubbed off for the force of his cleaning. 

Daisy is suddenly next to him, and her presence makes his shrink away, thinking of all the other times she towered over him, where every instance was followed by some form of violence. She steps back. That’s different. 

“It’s the dirt, isn’t it.” She says, softly. It’s not a question. “The Buried.”

“I’m _fine_.” Jon spits out, “I am _just fine_ , thank you, Daisy.”

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I rather think I do,” Jon says, “I’m… trusting people now, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to burden them as well. It’s only dirt.”

“Jon.” And it’s her, no, _their_ voice, the voice she only used with him, when they were -

Well, it has the desired effect. Jon looks at her, obeying her without a second thought, expecting to see… anger? Hatred? Frustration? Any one of the emotions that she always had in his presence, except it’s not any of those. It’s something completely unfamiliar. 

“You know as well as me, it's not just dirt.”

Jon turns away, recognising her tone, the slope of her eyes and expression. “Don’t _pity_ me, Daisy, please. I don’t deserve pity. I’m a -”

“Stop it.” Her voice is firm. Steady and unyielding. “Don’t start. That won’t work on me anymore.”

“I wasn’t-” Jon starts, stops, swallows. “I wasn’t trying to start - anything, Daisy. Not like _that_. We never… not in the Archives, and I’m not going to start now, especially not when you’re still _recovering-_ ”

“Jon, for god's sake,” Daisy lays a hand on his shoulder, and Jon stops, freezes. Deer in the headlights. Prey next to predator. Except, except, Daisy isn’t a Hunter, not anymore, and she pulls her hand away as soon as she feels Jon’s uneasiness, “That’s what I was trying to tell you. We’re not going to be doing that anymore.”

“Oh,” Jon says, and this shouldn’t feel like a break-up because it isn’t, they were _never_ , and yet Jon already aches for the touch again, already aches for contact in a world that is slowly permeated by cold fog. He didn’t rescue Daisy because he wanted to be touched, god no, but he can’t deny that he had wanted at least the one constant that was Daisy-Before-The-Buried in his life. The one person that wasn’t afraid of him. That wasn’t afraid of what he could _do_ to them. “Well then. I’ll just. Go.”

Daisy stands between him and the door. Maybe not then. “No, Jon. We’re going to talk.”

“Didn’t think you were much of a talker.” Jon mutters.

“I’m learning.” Daisy responds. “Jon, will you just sit down and listen to me?”

Her voice gets louder, and he flinches involuntarily. She sighs, and moves out of the way of the door, looking at him with something that might almost be guilt. 

“You don’t have too,” Daisy says, quietly. “I won’t force you to do anything. The whole point is that you… you don’t feel uncomfortable, that we don’t, dance around this like idiots. It, our arrangement,” She huffs out a laugh, “It wasn’t fun, Jon.”

“I believe that was rather the point of the whole endeavour.” Jon says, dryly. 

"There’s a difference between an unconventional relationship and what we were doing, Jon. I hurt you.”

“I asked you too,” Jon says, “We both _agreed_ , didn’t we?”

Daisy shook her head. “Not the way we should have done. You didn’t even have a fucking safeword, Jon!”

“I never asked you to stop!” He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want Daisy to blame herself for his own failings, for his own desperation for release.

“But you should have done! There were times, there were so many times, Jon, that I went too far. That I _hurt_ , hurt you. And not in the way we agreed.”

_Blood on his sheets. Bruises hidden away under long sleeves and glasses and scarves. Slammed doors and rope burns so bad that he could barely move his wrist for days. Shivering in fear and anticipation as she drags the sharp edge of a knife up his thigh, nails like claws on his back, on his arms, his throat -_

“I knew what I was getting into. I could handle it.” Jon says, dismissively. 

“Don’t lie to me, Jon,” Daisy says, “Please. We’ve been through too much to lie to each other.”

“What do you want me to say, Daisy?” Jon asks, “I used you just as much as you used me. I wanted you to hurt me, even past the point I could handle, because _I deserved it.”_

“You didn’t deserve it,” Daisy says, gentle, and for some reason, hearing that come from Daisy, of all people, makes Jon’s eyes itch and burn, and he ducks away from her gaze. “I was cruel, Jon. Sadistic and fucked up and… I should have done better, done what I owed to you, like I should have done. The Hunt was me, and I was the Hunt, and it’s no fucking excuse for all that I did back then. I’m sorry, Jon.”

“You don’t have to _apologise-_ ”

“I don’t know if I would have stopped, Jon,” Daisy interrupts. “If you ever had told me to. I don’t know if the Hunt would have let me. If I would have let you go. I could have -”

“You didn’t.” Jon says, firm. That, that is not something he will allow Daisy to carry. She had been a, a truly awful person but that. “Daisy, you never did… _That_ is not something I will let you take the blame for.”

“Don’t.” Daisy says, in a voice that Jon stop, an ingrained response to her command. “Don’t sugar coat it, Jon. What I did to you was wrong, end of the matter. I’m done running away from my mistakes, Jon, or pretending my actions were for something other than the fucking thrill of the chase.”

“I put you in that position, Daisy,” Jon says, shaking his head, “And I’m so sorry. If it were not for my own… self-destructive tendencies, you wouldn’t have even-”

“I’m the one that’s supposed to be apologising, you idiot.” Daisy sounds a little choked up, and it pulls Jon back to the coffin for a second, were the only comfort was Daisy’s voice and her grasping fingers gripping his. “Let me do something right for once in my life.”

Jon sighs, head bowed. “Sometimes, I think you might turn out to be the best of us.”

Daisy snorts, half laughter and half her own derision. “A very low bar you’ve got there.”

“Well, when the competition is between you and I…”

“I don’t think either of us are winning the ‘World’s Best Human’ award anytime soon.”

“Yes, but,” Jon pauses, tries to think of how to phrase this correctly. “You are a lesser monster than I can ever hope to be, now.”

“You’re not a monster, Jon,” Daisy says, and it almost sounds like she means it, “You’re more human than the rest of us.”

“I thought you said we weren’t going to lie to each other, Daisy,” Jon says, quiet, and Daisy doesn’t respond to that. He runs a slow, weary hand through his hair, and looks up at her, “So what happens now?”

“I’m gonna do,” Daisy says, stepping close to Jon again, and doing something she had never done before; she holds out a hand, palm up, open and inviting, “What I should have done before.”

Jon blinks, but doesn’t take her hand. Daisy huffs. “Jon, I owe you, at the very least, several months worth of aftercare. Seriously. It'll be nothing like we have done before. And, besides, if one more person tries to coddle me, I can’t be held responsible for my actions,” Her voice softens, “I promise. Nothing you don’t explicitly want to do. Your place or mine?”

Jon smiles wanly. “Don’t exactly have a flat anymore. Didn’t see the point in getting another one after the whole, on the run for murder and then in a coma for six months business.”

“Mine, then.” Daisy says. Her hand is still empty. Waiting. “Jon. Please?”

Jon looks at her, and thinks of teeth and claws and ropes and bruises that lingered for days. He looks at Daisy, and feels shifting dirt, and hears her choking on the pressure that surrounded them, sees a broken woman who had her heart scraped out of her a long time ago to be replaced with something that wasn’t quite human, wasn’t quite pure rage, but something in the middle. Now that was gone, and there was just the pieces of a young woman remaining, trying to hold herself together without the blood that had done so for her for so long.

He thinks of his hand in hers, the desperate clutch of fingers before everything had gotten dark and the world fell into dirt and dust and suffocation around them. 

Jon takes her hand, calloused and worn and familiarly red raw from soap and disinfectant and constant cleaning. Two monsters, hand in hand, trying to remember how to be human again. 

“Come on,” Daisy says, tugging him out and away from the Archives, from the Institute. It won’t be forever, it won’t even be for a day, but it’ll be something. And that matters. Months from now, when the world is wrong and broken and these two monsters still survive, it will matter then. But for the moment, with Daisy’s hand, warm in his, it matters more that he could ever really say, “I’ll show you the way.”

* * *

Jon should have known, really, that when Daisy took him back to her place, she was actually taking them back to Basira’s flat. It’s warmer than Jon expected, both in temperature and in decoration. There are plants draped on the windowsills, tapestries and prints of forests and country fields hung on the walls. Everything has its place in here; it is such a contrast to Jon’s old place, with books and papers were strewn around and anything mildly personal still packed in boxes from the last time he moved. Of course, he barely even has that anymore, only the bed in the Archives, not that he uses that much. 

It bothers him more that is should, intruding into this place that is so clearly _theirs_. 

“Daisy…” Jon says, hesitating on the entrance to the flat. “Are you sure?”

Daisy looks at him glances around, and appears to understand. “It’s alright,” She says, smiling gently, (Daisy smiling? At him? Miracles do happen) “Basira knows about all this. She’s agreed to give us some space.”

Jon’s stomach goes cold at the thought of anyone knowing about the history of his and Daisy’s relationship, but, well, that cannot be helped now. “Did you tell -?”

“Only in the very briefest of terms.” Daisy answers. “Need to know only. Now, nudity. You okay with it?”

Jon blinks, rocking back on his heels slightly at the sudden change in topic. 

“I -What?”

“Nudity, Sims,” Daisy says, a crooked smile on her face, “Nothing we haven’t done before, but if you don’t want to, I won’t force you.”

If this was anyone else, Jon knew he would say no. An easy answer. But this was Daisy, and Daisy had seen him, laid him out, open and cared none for his scars. This was Daisy, who had hated him for what he was, not for his body. This was Daisy, and she had never given him a choice like this before. 

“I, uh, I don’t…” Jon says, intelligently.

Daisy rolls her eyes. “Come into the flat, and then decide.”

Jon stops hovering at the door frame, and steps inside, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why, er, why is it necessary?”

“Shit, of course,” Daisy says, “I’m going to run you a long bath, get the dirt out of your skin. Then we are going to order take-away, and sit and make fun of idiots on some shitty reality TV show.”

It’s so normal, so… ordinary, that Jon doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry. How did anyone live like this? Is this what real people did? 

Did Basira do this? Did she lead Daisy home by hand, holding her weight with careful ease? Did she run a bath for Daisy, wring her out with clever, gentle hands until there was no dirt staining her skin and the Hunt was entirely washed away? Did she wrap her partner in the blankets draped over the back of the sofa, holding her close as they pick through the remains of three separate take-aways?

(Yes, Jon knows. Knows it as clearly as he sees the echoes of it in the flat; this space they have carved and cut out for themselves, away from the horror of their every day) 

"You don't have to do that." Jon says, out of instinct, out of obligation; he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't, he doesn't deserve to stand in this home they have made, doesn't deserve to be cared for like a person-

"Jon." Daisy is in front of him, Daisy has two fingers resting under his chin, gentle and insistent, pulling his head up and out of his spiral. Daisy, warmth and mercy in her gaze. An unthinkable combination just a few months ago. "Jon, look at me. I am sick to death of being coddled like a child, but I've learned a thing or two about asking for help. About asking for what you need. Let me do this for you. Let me _help_ , Jon."

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but what comes out instead is: "I'm so tired, Daisy." 

Daisy squeezes his shoulder, pressure to relieve pressure, "I'll get the bath going. Take a seat, Jon."

There's a thread to her voice, a command that has Jon sitting on their second hand sofa instinctively, listening to her footsteps echo down the small corridor and the sound of water splashing into porcelain.

Exhaustion settles on him like a thick wool blanket. He hadn’t even realised how tired he was until these passing moments. Months of running and hiding, of taking information, of taking _statements._ Months of not sleeping because he fears who he will see that night, months of missing ~~Martin~~ human contact, missing his own long lost humanity. He wants to close his eyes and sleep for a thousand years. He’s terrified of what he would see if he did. 

Daisy’s hand on his shoulder jolts him out of his daze. “Come with me.” She says, and it’s no longer a question. 

Jon follows her obediently into the small bathroom. The curtains a light blue; there’s a bouquet of flowers on the windowsill, white and yellow and small, and steam is already curling patterns into the mirror. He takes a deep breath, the humidity of the room already making his clothes Too Much.

Daisy opens the window without asking, and Jon can probably guess what her particular reasoning behind that is. There is the faint sound of the high street in the distance; cars and sirens and shouts. The sounds of life, muffled by the sound of pouring water. 

He blinks and Daisy is in front of him again, her fingers resting on his shirt.

“May I?” She asks, gently pulling on one of his buttons, asking permission. Like he’s still a person.

This time, he isn’t afraid when he lets out a breath, and with it, a breathless, “ _Yes_.”

She refrains from actually touching him much, in the end. The faint brush of skin on skin as she pulls off his shirt, hangs his trousers up on the radiator. Her hands are wet when they take his socks from him, from stirring in the mountain of bubbles that she seems to have accumulated already in the nearly-full tub.

Jon takes in a hot breath, overwhelmed suddenly with oppressive head and sight and smell of lemon and lavender, and catches Daisy’s wrist. She looks to him, startled. 

“Will you,” Jon starts, tries to reorganise his thoughts into words. “Will you stay?”

Her face softens. “If you want me to.”

“No, I mean,” He frowns as she leans over and turns off the tap, “In there. With me. The Buried, it, it affected you too. If I feel… dirty, still, then you must too-”

“I told you, Jon, this isn’t about me.”

“But it might,” Jon scrambles for some kind of excuse that would make sense that isn’t _I want someone to touch me and right now the only person I trust to do that is you, “_ If you, if we both, get clean, it might not affect us so much anymore.”

Daisy, to her credit, considers this as she has considered his responses so far; thoughtfully, and then responding with efficient adherence to them. 

“Get in the bath, Jon.” She instructs, and as he turns, there is the unmistakable sound of clothes dropping to the floor. Even now, even after everything they have done, Jon is glad for the sheer volume of bubbles that allows him some level of cover. Even if that is more for himself than for her; he has avoided nudity and mirrors where possible, ever since he got his first scars. 

The water is hot, the kind of hot that burns brightly as he enters, then fades into a pleasing warmth that encases his body. His heart speeds up, the idea of being engulfed and pulled down mixed with the sheer heat of the room panicking him more than he would like to admit. 

Then Daisy’s hand is on his shoulder, and her body, small and lithe compared to how he remembers her, slides into the bath behind him, grounding him with a cool hand and the quietest of breaths as she takes in the heat. 

“Fuck, that’s hotter than I thought,” She says, “Still okay, though?”

“I’m good.” Jon replies, shifting as he feels her reach for a bottle in front of him. 

“I’m going to wash your hair,” Daisy says, “Close your eyes when I tell you too.”

Jon closes his eyes without argument, leaning back when she pours some of the water over his head and begins to work the shampoo into his hair, untangling the knots hidden in there, and pulling the last of the dirt from his scalp. 

He can’t help himself, letting out something that isn’t quite a sigh, but not yet a moan, and he feels the vibrations of Daisy’s quiet laughter echo through his back and into his ribs. He feels himself flush, though from heat or embarrassment he isn’t sure.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Daisy replies, “You’re doing really good, Jon.”

A part of him, a part that is far too large and floating to the surface along with the bubbles and embarrassing noises, preens at the praise, and he lets out another, rather more contented sigh. 

“Praise, huh?” Daisy says, though it sounds like it’s more to herself than to Jon. “We’re learning a lot about each other, today.”

Jon hums quietly, too caught up in all of this to really laugh, “I feel like there should be more of a, ah, quid pro quo, about this.”

“What is there that you don’t know about me?” Daisy asks, and maybe before that would have been laced with barbed wire, but now it is teasing, light. 

Jon thinks. “What’s your favorite colour?” He asks, finally.

Daisy barks out a laugh this time, reaching around him again, this time for the conditioner, running it through his hair like some slightly aggressive grooming animal while she thinks of a response. 

“Green,” She says, finally, pulling lightly on Jon’s hair to elicit another of those half sighs from him, “Mossy. Like… like slightly wet grass.”

Feeling the soap pour down his face, Jon carefully shifts himself so he is facing Daisy, a small smile on his face as he wipes and opens his eyes. 

“Like Basira’s eyes?” He asks, dipping carefully into the realm of teasing, careful not to allow any of the Archivist’s poison to slip in. 

Daisy’s body sags a little, and she looks away. “Yeah.”

Jon reaches out a hand covered in bubbles and rests it on Daisy’s knee. 

“You can tell her.”

Daisy huffs in amusement, shaking her head. “Since when are you the one to give others relationship advice, Jon?”

“Alright, fair,” Jon admits, “But she’s still Basira. And she does…”

“What, love me?” Daisy says. Jon is almost shocked to hear her speak so candidly. “I’m not the same woman she fell in love with. I can feel her… frustration, even if she is very good at not showing it.”

“She’s happy you’re back.”

Daisy sighs. “Yeah, she is. And that does help, you know? She still wants me, but… I’m not useful to her, like this. I’m not what she needs.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that.” Jon replies gently. 

“I don’t. And I don’t blame her either, I’m just… I’m different. Than I was. I’m not as strong, not as able. The Hunt dulled everything that wasn’t a chase to this… quiet nothing. Even Basira, towards the end. There is so much of everything, now. Basira, especially, and I don’t…” Daisy closes her eyes, “I wish that she could accept me as I am now, without pitying me for it. I’m not the same person I was.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Jon says, quietly, squeezes her knee. “That you aren’t the same. No one is the same all the time. The world would be extremely dull otherwise.”

Daisy laughs then, runs a wet hand through her hair, “I suppose. Come on, turn around. I need to get the conditioner out.”

Jon smiles, and obeys. 

After what could be a few minutes or maybe a few hours later, for the way that Jon’s muscles unspool their exhaustion and stress, Daisy’s phone buzzes, and she taps his shoulder, removing her hands from where they had been carefully braiding his hair. 

“Time to get out, unless you want to turn into a prune.”

She gets out before he does, heading out of the bathroom, and, annoyingly, taking both of their clothes with her. He watches her go, takes one last breath of the hot, scented air, then pulls himself out. Once his legs have remembered how to be legs again, he wraps the dressing gown around himself, and follows the wet footprints to the living room. 

Daisy is wearing loose fitting, flowery pyjamas and is rifling through several bags worth of takeaway, and it is such a strange picture, so unlike anything Jon is used to seeing, he almost bursts out laughing. Instead, Daisy turns, and offers a styrofoam box to him.

“You like spicy shit, right?”

“Yes,” Jon’s mouth says, as it starts to water in anticipation, as the smell of Thai spices fill his nose, “How did you know?”

Daisy shrugs. “Tailed you for a bit, a while ago,” She waves it off, “You should really start a less regular routine. I promise you, you won’t be kidnapped as much if you’re unpredictable.”

“Once,” Jon grumbles, taking the curry. “It happened _once_.”

“Oi, don’t I count?” Daisy asks, grinning. “Sit, Jon, and pick something trashy and filled with fake blondes.”

She throws the remote at him, as she continues to make some kind of abomination mix of curries in her own box. Jon does as she says, sitting on her sofa and being very careful not to drop any of the vibrantly red curry over it, chooses something to her specifications. A moment later, Daisy joins him, pulling a large wool blanket over them both, and settling into eat. 

E4 blares from the TV, and as spicy as the curry ends up being, Jon can feel the exhaustion, staved off by the bath and the light converstation, now begin to catch up with him. It’s a different exhaustion, though, not brought about through pain and overwork and panic about whatever is trying to kill them today, but from good food, good conversation, and good company. 

The window is open in here too, and the evening breeze catches his hair, settles it around his shoulders to soak into the dressing gown there. It’s soft. The blanket is heavy, pressure in a good way, and Daisy is warm to his right, laughing at the latest fuck-up on screen, at these ordinary people and their ordinary dramas. The Institute is still there, the eye is still there, humming away in the back of his mind, but it is fuzzy, far away. Daisy is here. She has always been a rock; sharp and jagged, thrown at himself when he particularly deserved it. But time in the dirt has sanded her down, turned sharp edges smooth. Still a little rough, and certainly still painful when thrown at him. There is less inclination though, and, like a stone he picked up on the beach, the smooth parts of her, the gentle parts, are soothing against his skin, a calm motion. No less strong, but different. 

He finds himself yawning, and a hand catches his food before it slips out of his hands. 

“You’ve done really good, Jon.” Daisy’s voice says, and he feels the blanket rearrange itself around him. He hums happily at the praise, and lets her tilt him towards her, allowing her to tuck him into her side, resting his head against her chest. Listening to her heartbeat. 

A miracle. Both of their hearts are still beating.

“Thank you for this.” He says, muffled, into her side. 

A rustle and then; soft pressure on the top of his head. She presses a single kiss to his hair, then leans back, her breathing slowed. 

She never kissed him. Never had, and Jon was fine with that. It wasn’t in their arrangement. This didn’t feel like that. It was a confirmation, thought of what, he couldn’t say. A reassurance.

He sighs, lets exhaustion in as underneath him, he feels her breath even out, her heartbeat echo in her chest, in his ears. 

To the sound of the open window of life spilling into the flat, this small solace, to the sound of ridiculous drama from the small TV, to the sound of quiet breathing moving his body up and down in time with Daisy’s breathing, Jon falls asleep to the sound of life.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please kudos and comment!! or alternatively,come yell at me @MJDashwood on twitter, and marianne-dash-wood on tumblr!


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